Dressing Down
by Basic Bard
Summary: If you wrap your wounds in silk blood looks like a harlot's dye.


_**Dressing Down**_

_It's not fun._

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><p>I'm hot. I'm sweaty. The leather of my clothes clings to me awkwardly. The material feels sticky, as though it's been sweating too. This is nothing I'm not used to. I still dislike it.<p>

I let out a sigh and open the door. The room is dark. That's the way I like it. I can see clearly in the dark. I'm blind as a bat in the light. It makes sense. I _am_ a bat.

I peel my gloves from my hands and fling the white material aside. It falls slowly. dancing to the floor with grace.

My palms are red, my knuckles even more so. It stings a little. I turn my hands over and frown. I've opened old scars. They gape at me mockingly, reminding me that they're still there. I can't get rid of them no matter how hard I try. It's so tedious wearing the gloves. They do nothing but keep my wounds clean...and hide me. I forgot. They hide me.

I try to take a deep breath but my pink breastplate keeps my lungs from expanding. The tight suit doesn't help.

I wriggle out of it And remove my shoes. The fabric is still clutching at me. It burns to tear it off. It leaves my skin red. It help with the heat though. It helps a lot.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead. My white fur is ruffled the wrong way by the action. I don't bother to fix it. I'm too exhausted to care.

I take a step towards a white door across the room. It's hinges are rusty. It's white paint is peeled. The golden knob is slightly loose and marred with smudges and fingerprints. It is familiar, charmingly familiar.

I take another deep breath. This time it is easier.

The carpet scratches at the soles of my feet. They're calloused and bruised. The rough, filthy floor does not help.

I enter the bathroom. Close the door behind me.

The room is dark so obviously I have clarity.

I tread towards the sink. Old make up stains the false porcelain. I see the blue shadow, thick black mascara and lineR, the tan foundation, the pink gloss from my lips. I never bothered to wash them away. They're an eyesore but I don't really care. It doesn't matter.

I turn the water on. Cold water. I feel it with my finger tips. It chills me. It's satisfying. I watch the water run in the bright dark and notice some of the inky colours drip down the drain. Their faint marks still remain. The porcelain has been scarred.

I cup my hands beneath the faucet and wince at the bite on my flesh. The feeling of my open knuckles being cleansed is bitter sweet, to say the least. I don't fight it. It's for the best.

When I'm sure the cuts are clean I lean down, hold my breath, puff out my cheeks and splash the water in my face. The substance that clogged my pours is purged. I rub the liquid in until it too carries the mark of face paint. I feel cool air and water on my face. It's relieving. I revel in it.

I let the new make up go down the drain. The I stop the tap.

I glance up to see myself. A glance becomes a stare. A stare becomes an assessment. An assessment becomes hatred. Pure self-loathing consumes me.

My eyes were still half closed but not in a sultry way. I was just tired. My eyelids and bags were grey with fatigue, my lips chapped from going a day or so without water. My muzzle was pale without the glow of a bronzer; pale, sickly, desperately in need of moisture.

Ivory fur looked grey, green eyes became dull, smooth skin was ragged with white lines, bruises and red slashes. My body was battered. There was nothing lovely about me anymore, just honesty.

Like I said, with the darkness came clarity, whether I liked it or not.

I closed my eyes tightly and reached for the switch on the wall. When white flashed behind my lids I knew it was safe. I opened my eyes. Everything was knew.

It was blurred like a bad photo shop. I could be mistaken for my guise. I could think of myself as decent. No sweat, no grime, no wounds, no age. My birthday suit was new, not dilapidated.

I'd smile but this made me no happier. I'd prefer this to be real. I'd prefer myself to be real. But I'm not. I'm not beautiful, I'm disguised. Not strong, just shielded. Not coquettish, just afraid. Scared of you, myself and everything else. That's the worst part of it all. That's all there is.

I'm tired of the mirage. I turn my back on the mirror and flip the switch down. I enter my room, still naked, still bare. Then I curl up silently at the foot of my bed, knees to my chest, face buried in my thighs, and I ask myself what I'm doing.

Is this worth it? Am I worth it?

The answer is guarded in my most intimate place. It only makes sense that it could be drawn from the most intimate touch.

So I sit there and I wait.

"Rouge?"

I dream and I wait.

"Rouge?"

I wonder who would call but I don't get up. I wait. He comes, like I knew he would.

"Rouge?"

It is darkness that brings clarity. It is light that brings lies. So when the shadows close in I do not fight it. I like the lie but I need the truth. This is my only truth.

"You're naked," his voice is raspy from the doorway.

"I know."

"That doesn't bother you?"

"No. Does it bother you?"

The answer never comes so I wait. I dream. I wait. I see.

Clarity has arrived.

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed this. <strong>

**Critiques are welcome and I'd like to hear your thoughts.**

**Thank you.**


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